


not a king at all

by kalypsobean



Category: Jesus Christ Superstar - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Sensuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:00:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She does what she can to give him rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not a king at all

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyoneill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoneill/gifts).



> ladyoneill, i noted from your letter that you were more familiar with the '73 movie version, so i tried to cleave closer to that than the Gale Edwards version, and this is what came out.

_While you prattle through your supper, where and when and who and how_  
 _She alone has tried to give me what I need right here and now_  
\-- Jesus, "What's the Buzz/Strange Thing Mystifying" 

 

She knows not to complain about the little things: the sand in her hair, the dirt that clings to her skin, the oppressive heat and the night-time chill. They are things that she is only conscious of when she is still, when she is alone; when the words hurt her even more than the insects which bite and the sun that burns, they weigh on her until she cries, under a veil so that nobody can see. 

When she left her home she gathered her purest oils and finest powders; she wrapped them carefully and packed them into a basket, but rarely uses them for herself, instead making do with water and lye and the coarser grounds she can scrounge from any market. There is little to be done about much of the damage being done for she intends to remain with him for as long as he allows, and has not given a thought to after.

 

It is the small things that make a difference, she knows; though she came to see the prophet who could raise the dead, she stayed for the man who has a smile for the children and goes sleepless when the crowds are without end. She is the one who burns incense and watches the flame while he sleeps. She is the one who rubs oil on his forehead and ointment into the abrasions from the wind and the rocks. 

She is the one who sings so that he can sleep without hearing the disciples talking around them, and holds him when the dreams come unbidden.

 

He seeks her out in the mornings and the evenings; she combs his hair and he always thanks her, his eyes seem to look into her heart and in that second she feels strong and resolute, as if she were taller and somehow more. It's in these times, scarcely more than a few minutes, that she thinks she can see the same in him. When he leaves her, whether to preach or to heal or to walk with the disciples, he is always tense; he has his shoulders drawn back and his mouth is turned down, his face is lined and his hands never seem to stop moving. 

Her hands itch to drain that tension away, but he is always in demand and often only has time for her to wash the dirt from his hands and feet; he is called away to talk and talk and even she feels exhausted, as if he cannot keep his pain within himself. 

 

It is when he begins to talk of the end that she insists; she anoints him during shared meals, when she can sit beside him with naught but gossip to get in her way. Ill will is a price she is willing to pay for these moments, for she can feel the weight slowly fall from his mind in the way his body responds to her, and he never tells her to cease. Even when he rises, whether to defend her or to address some other need, he returns. 

She wishes, almost selfishly, that he would ask her for it and tell her what he needs, because then she would know how to help him, instead of merely providing a balm for the physical marks his destiny leaves on him; she is but a distraction, and she cannot take away from him that which ever draws him closer. She tries, one night; she burns frankincense and uses the last of the myrrh, mixed with sage and just a drop of mint, but within days the tension is back, almost as if her efforts were fruitless.

Yet, when they reach another city, indistinguishable behind the crowd and the sun and the dust in the air, she visits the market, and though she is known, she still pays; he comes to her when the rest of them sleep, and when he finally succumbs to that same peaceful rest she strokes his hair until dawn reaches the window. He smiles when he wakes as if called by the sun, and does not move until there is noise from the street below.

 

It is when she finds him curled in on himself and rocking, his clothing torn, that she understands; she leads him back to their rooms, avoiding their hosts by stealth and luck and guiding him around the walls so that they don't wake anyone. She feeds him fruit that she had saved when she saw he had not arrived with the apostles, and she holds the bowl as he drinks. Only now, without candles, can she see how worn he looks despite her efforts; he looks as if his soul is destroying him from the inside, a burden he cannot escape.

She does what little she can for such a malady; she finds him a fresh robe and washes his hair and feet, she kneads the tightness from his shoulders and tends to what bruises she can see. When she can tell he is focused on her and his mind is away from the masses and this terrible task appointed to him, she graduates to something gentler; she lies alongside him and tells him stories, anything she can think of, until his eyes finally close. 

She dares not move away in case she is all that is between him and the dreams of darkness.

 

She is there to squeeze his hand when the noise is overwhelming and he cannot distinguish one plea from another; she orients herself around him, always there to calm him and draw him away before he grows so weak he is again overrun, because she knows he will need his strength. She is never further than an arm's reach away until the guards come for him; and even then, she is there when he is tried, when he is sentenced, and when he is raised up out of her reach and she can only see his shadow against the sun for her tears.

 

There, at the end, she makes sure to stand where he can see her; it is the last thing she can do for him.


End file.
